


stars beneath my feet

by hayleyisbored



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Communication, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Love, M/M, i guess?, set between 159 and 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayleyisbored/pseuds/hayleyisbored
Summary: “Keep looking at me, Martin. Keepseeingme.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 21
Kudos: 167





	stars beneath my feet

The journey has been quiet, for the most part. 

Martin squeezes his hands together, trying to chafe some warmth into them because the heater in Daisy’s car is broken and, as they wind their way further north and towards Scotland, the cooler the climate seems to grow.

The chill clings to Martin, it drapes over him and settles on his skin like the spray of the sea. He hasn’t felt warm since the Lonely but it’s eased somewhat since Jon led him to his freedom with a firm and insistent grip, bony fingers searing with heat laced between his own. The cold has become bearable with Jon.

Martin glances to Jon now, over in the driver’s seat, squinting into the rear view mirror like he’s trying to find some sinister shape in the darkness behind them. He’s been like that for the entire drive, on edge like he’s waiting for a clawed hand to reach up from the earth and drag them back to London, to the Archives, to whatever terror lays in wait for them.

“Shall I put on some music?” Martin suggests, speaking for the first time since Jon asked if he wanted a loo break. 

Even though he whispers the words, they seem to scream in the black confines of the car and he cringes at the noise of them.

“God, no.” Jon says immediately, voice cracking, seemingly flinching at the bluntness of his own tone. He shoots an apologetic look at Martin, the lights of a passing car glancing off his glasses for a split second; it lends him an inhuman appearance, bright white wiping blank all the concern and tenderness from Jon’s eyes, then - there. Jon is back. Martin relaxes. “I’m sorry, I just - I hate being distracted when I drive. I can’t focus. Too much of a racket - unless you want - ?” Jon blindly reaches out for the radio.

“It’s fine, Jon.”

“It’s not. I didn’t mean to sound so - so -”

“So Jon-like?” Martin offers, smiling for the first time in a long time. “I’ve had years of building up a resistance. Some may even say I’m impervious to it by now.”

“Oh christ, Martin. I’m so sorry,” Jon sounds stricken, a little bit broken. It’s like a fist closing around Martin’s heart. “I’m trying to be better than that. I want to be better - to you. _For_ you.”

Martin hasn’t been able to meet Jon’s gaze since the beach and it’s harder to do so now. He ducks his head, fiddles with the strap of his seat belt.

“Oh,”

They lapse back into silence, stifling now because Martin’s face is flushing red and Jon is absolutely refusing to take his eyes off the road again.

Martin hopes that Basira is okay. After Jon and Martin found themselves returned to the tunnels beneath the Institute, they fled with the taste of salt still lingering on their lips. Jon navigated them out and far, far away, shielding Martin from whatever horrors were happening in the corridors of the Institute above. 

He’d taken them to Martin’s flat, pushed him down into the faded cushions of the ratty settee and followed that up with a mug of poorly made, sugarless tea. He barely hovered; it hadn’t taken Jon long to find Martin’s cupboard full of shopping bags and he’d started shoving any and all clothing he could put his hands on into them while Martin sat in a daze, witnessing the occurrence like it was a dream.

 _"Toothbrush? Oh, here it is."_

_"Do you mind if we take your toothpaste?"_

_"Martin, are these the only socks you own?"_

Somewhere between furiously packing and mumbling assurances, Jon had found the time to contact Basira. It had taken longer to reach her than Martin would have liked, and Jon’s clipped swearing every time the phone rang out to voicemail built on Martin’s nerves until he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore. Jon had stood behind him, had clung to Martin’s shoulder and kneaded there anxiously like he was doing it for his own benefit as much as for Martin’s, a sigh of relief ribboning out of him when Basira finally picked up.

The conversation had been urgent, rapid. Jon had nodded a lot, had bitten back questions even though Martin knew it strained against his nature. All of Jon’s attempts to persuade Basira to leave with them were met with stony refusal.

Basira was staying in London. Martin had heard her shouting through the phone even as Jon’s frustration manifested into pacing across the front room. She’d made a promise to Daisy, she said, she couldn’t abandon her. She would leave Daisy’s car and instructions to one of her safe houses outside Martin’s flat. Don’t look for her, she’d demanded, don’t _contact_ her until she smoothed things over. She would call them.

 _"Stick together, for god’s sake.”_ had been Basira’s last words to Jon, who had repeated them through gritted teeth to Martin.

So they stuck together.

They decided not to bother waiting it out until morning. An hour after Basira hung up, Martin had peeked out of his kitchen blinds to see a beat up Renault Clio parked neatly at the kerb in the street below. It was lit up like an invitation, illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlight. 

Jon had breathed out a trembling, “ _ready?"_ , and Martin nodded even if he had felt anything but. Martin shut the door of his flat behind him with no idea if or when he was going to return and yet he hadn’t been that torn up over it. Wherever they were headed, it didn’t matter so long as he was with Jon.

Martin keeps experiencing the most surreal feeling of waiting to wake up but when he discreetly pinches the inside of his arm, the keen sting brings with it tears and it’s enough to do away with any of those thoughts.

They’ve been driving for some hours now, the horizon ahead turning from pure black to inky blue, and the whole world seems condensed into this tiny car. It practically is for Martin; the contents of his entire wardrobe must be crammed into the bags haphazardly flung onto the backseat, and then there’s - well, there’s _Jon._ What else did he have? What else could he want?

“I think we’re almost there.” Jon murmurs, peering at the battered map spread out over the dashboard. “It’s just a mile or two outside of the village.”

It’s only now, with grey light seeping through the windows, that Martin can see the dark bruises beneath Jon’s weary eyes. Fatigue seeps from his pores, it trickles down the lines of his face like sweat. Jon startles at the gentle touch that Martin presses to the crook of his arm; when he glances down as if to confirm the cause of the sensation, his blinks are sluggish, his expression something soft and unreadable. 

“You need to rest, Jon. You need to eat.”

“I will,” Jon promises, pushing his glasses up into his hair, one hand scrubbing roughly over his face. “I will…”

The way he says it hardly comforts Martin. Jon sounds doubtful, he sounds _scared._ Martin wonders if it’s more of a Jon specific problem or if they’re all feeling much the same right now. What rest can be had with Elias still out there? What nourishment can be gained without appetite? Jon’s particular predicament is muddled with complications the others do not have. 

“Did you bring any statements to read?”

The question appears to genuinely puzzle Jon, as if he can’t begin to fathom why Martin is asking after statements at a time like this but then his expression clears, teeth worrying at his bottom lip while he maneuvers a tricky turning onto a narrow lane.

“It would appear that Basira has thought of everything.” Jon says slowly. “I found a box of statements in the boot. They’re - they’re not quite enough for me now but it - it should, ah, tide me over for a while at least. It’s better than nothing.” he adds when he spots the look of worry on Martin’s face.

“Good,” Martin breathes, gratitude for Basira flooding his body. “That’s good.”

“Yes. I must admit that in my haste, I had rather forgotten...to…”

Jon brings the car to a stop. They’re pulled up alongside a small cottage; it's quite the picture of charm with its white gate and quaint little apple tree, the paint on the powder blue door flaking away. Martin tilts his head, hoping the slightly altered perspective will help him picture _Daisy_ here. It doesn’t.

“Well, it’s certainly not what I was expecting.” Jon confesses with no small degree of surprise.

Martin snorts at the understatement, “I don’t know about you but I was sort of hoping for a moat.”

Jon doesn’t smile; he _beams._ Martin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile like this, not all teeth and crinkly eyed and so genuinely delighted at Martin’s joke, and it renders him utterly, hopelessly speechless in its wake. 

Jon interprets Martin’s slack, pale face all wrong but before Martin can rectify the situation - exactly how to do that, he has no idea. He can hardly say “ _oh, sorry. You only dazzled me just then._ ” can he? - Jon is quickly turning away, busying himself with attempting to escape Daisy’s car.

By the time Martin has punished himself with the mortification of it all and joined Jon in pulling out the bags from the backseat, the opportunity to explain has passed by. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t pack much by way of food.” Jon tells Martin as they shuffle their way along the stone path, each shouldering their share of Martin’s possessions. “There’s half a loaf of bread and a four pack of baked beans in one of these bags somewhere. I, uh, I raided your fridge and cupboards, if that’s alright? There - there wasn’t much selection.”

He speaks that last part almost like a question but Martin is in no way prepared to talk about how he’s been living these past months yet. Instead, he skirts around the issue and shrugs as if it doesn’t matter.

“That’s fine. I’m sure we can check out the village tomorrow once we’re settled in.”

“Yes, of course.” Jon says, unlocking the front door and letting Martin go ahead of him. “Of course…”

They drop the bags in the entryway for now, and Martin takes steady, cautious steps deeper into the cottage. It’s homely enough but it’s scarce, light on the furniture and even lighter on anything absolutely not essential. There’s Daisy’s practicality shining through; it’s apparent this safe house is furnished for no more than two people at a time and Daisy is not the sort to waste her efforts on decorating.

“I’ll check upstairs, shall I?”

Martin turns just as Jon’s feet vanish from view up the narrow steps to the first floor. He’s definitely going to have to talk to Jon about...everything. All the questions whirring about in his head, all the things he really _needs_ to expand on. He’d told Jon he _loved_ him, for god’s sake. He felt it in the air between them during the drive, he feels it now in every darting glance Jon shoots him, every quiet sigh and purposeful touch.

He just doesn’t know how. Back in the Lonely, on the beach where everything felt so distant and _unreal_ , Jon might as well have been a spectre. Martin couldn’t mourn for that love but he’d recognised the absence in himself, the loss of agonies and pleasures born of those turbulent emotions which had been chased away by consuming loneliness. His confession of loving Jon had been a eulogy - or as much of one as he had been capable of.

_“I really loved you, you know?”_

He had never dreamt that Jon would lead him back into the world anew.

“The bath tub has seen better days but it’s serviceable.” Jon grumbles as he descends the stairs, not noticing Martin jump at his reappearance. “Don’t even get me started on the bed - of which there is _one_ , I might add. I’m willing to live through the temporary discomfiture of sharing if you are? Or one of us can take the settee?” 

They both look across to the tiny two-seater sofa, the silence between them speaking volumes.

“You know what? Sharing will be fine.”

Jon nods, clearly satisfied with getting that point of mild embarrassment out of the way, and he moves to check out the front room properly. There’s a heaviness in his steps, the soles of his shoes seem to scuff along the carpeted floor like gravity has suddenly become too much for him to contend with.

“Right, that’s it.” Martin says decisively, grabbing Jon by the arm and forcing him down into one of the spindly chairs at the kitchen table. “It’s my turn now. You stay right there and I’ll fix up some breakfast, then you’re going to sleep.”

“That really isn’t necessary - oh, very well.” Jon concedes when Martin pins a glare on him. He drops his head into his hands, fingers tangling amongst greying hair, his shoulders sagging from exhaustion now that Martin has given him express permission to and taken over duties. “It has been...an _incredibly_ long night.”

“Yes, I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

Martin sets about gathering what meagre supplies they have. He locates the bread and beans in the fifth bag he checks, along with what’s left of some long-life milk and an untouched box of teabags. It’s not a terribly exciting breakfast but it’s sustenance at the very least. It’s more than he could have hoped for from a spontaneous dash across the length of the country throughout the night.

“Beans on toast?” Martin offers, showing Jon his bounty like Jon hadn’t been the one to pack them.

Jon’s smile is wan but true, “That sounds wonderful.”

Martin has to toast the bread under the grill of the gas cooker and he probably uses up too much of their rations in one go but really, Jon looks famished. It’s nice being able to do this for him, even if it is such a small thing. Martin knows he’s lucky to have this chance. 

It’s not even off putting to feel Jon’s stare on him as he potters around the kitchen, it’s - well, it’s _comforting_ to know someone is there.

“Tea.” Martin deposits the mug and a plate of toast heaped with beans in front of Jon.

Jon bypasses the food completely to take a hearty glug of tea instead, unfazed by the steam curling from the scalding liquid and fogging up his glasses. 

“God, I’ve missed that.” Jon sighs, smacking his lips together. It seems to revive him some. Martin always knew the restorative powers of a well brewed mug of tea and he can feel the gentle burn of delight at Jon’s approval on the tips of his ears. “My own efforts were never quite right. I suppose I don’t have the knack for it as you do.”

Martin sits himself down at the table opposite Jon, impossibly pleased. “I can teach you, if you like. The secret is in patience.”

“I’ve never gotten the hang of being patient.”

“Well, I know _that_.” Martin teases and, for one moment, it’s as if they’re back in Jon’s office, back before all of this madness took hold of them. 

Back to half finished mugs of cold tea and Jon nestled between walls of a most precarious nature, a small kingdom built entirely on written statements clumsily stacked. Just one man and his tape recorder, on a single-minded mission for organisation.

It’s hard to recall how simple everything had been then, even if Jon would bristle in annoyance every time Martin disturbed him. He used to be so prickly, so remote. How much they’ve changed since those days. Maybe not that tweed blazer that Jon has been wearing since he became Head Archivist...

“Wait,” Martin suddenly cries, throwing down his knife and fork. “Jon! We didn’t pick up any of your things!”

Jon looks sheepish, a flush rising along his cheekbones. 

“Uh, no - no, we didn’t. I was concerned it would be too risky to go to my place so I thought I could - ah - borrow from you for the time being?”

“Oh - oh,” Martin stammers, wanting to die at the way his brain and mouth have disengaged from one another. “Oh, yes - sure - I mean, if you don’t mind looking like you’re a child dressed in their parents clothing? All my things will drown you but I have a few shirts that might work - some trousers -”

“That’s very kind of you, Martin. Thank you.”

From the way he’s biting down on his lip, it’s evident that Jon is working very hard not to laugh. 

“You’re laughing at me!” 

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are!” Martin says, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face. “There you go again!”

“Maybe I am a _little_.”

And then they’re both laughing, Jon _wheezing_ in a way he never has before, as if his lungs simply don’t have the capacity for all this gaiety but they’re giving it their best shot anyway. Martin hardly cares enough to wonder if sleep deprivation and mental exhaustion have well and truly caught up with them. 

“We - we should - should go - go to sleep,” Jon rasps between laughs, wiping away tears from beneath his glasses. 

“You’re probably right.” 

Martin catches Jon’s eye, which only sets off a fresh wave of guffaws and it’s incredible, it’s _exhilarating_ to lose himself in the company of joy. He collapses over the table, choking on his own laughter, arms outstretched as Jon’s hands join the fray to clasp fingers around Martin’s wrists.

Eventually the laughter wears down, bubbles up occasionally in between periods of peaceful amusement. Martin still has his cheek pressed against the wood of the tabletop, gasping on air, when Jon tugs gently at his sleeve.

“Come on, bed.”

Together they climb the stairs, at odds with the light of early morning pouring in through the windows. Martin gets the brief impression of a bare corridor, beige and unexciting, before Jon shows him into the bedroom.

One wardrobe, one desk, one bed. Martin nearly says aloud that he should remind Daisy that comfort and practicality aren’t mutually exclusive but then he remembers, blanching, feeling altogether awful that he could forget to begin with.

“Which side?”

Martin looks up from his guilt, frowning. “Sorry?”

“The bed? Which side do you…” Jon gestures awkwardly, looking as pained as Martin feels.

“Uh,” Martin turns his attention to the bed. “Um, either? I guess?”

Jon nods, strips off his jacket to throw it onto the left side of the mattress. His movements are brusque, professional, trying to ease them through this moment with as little self-consciousness as possible. Martin is grateful for that, it helps him do the same.

They undress in a perfunctory manner, focused on the task of not tripping as they kick their way out of shoes, climb out of trousers. Martin rummages through one of the bags they’ve brought upstairs until he comes up with something clean enough; he offers Jon his softest t-shirt to sleep in.

“Thank you.”

There’s a few seconds where they watch each other over the bed before they climb in; Jon’s hair is in turmoil, the warm golden sunlight catching silver streaks at his temples. Martin’s t-shirt rides down to the tops of his thighs, the sleeves at his elbows; it makes him look younger, makes him look more his age. He’s staring at Martin like he’s someone dear, someone precious, and Martin has never loved anyone more.

It’s only when they settle beneath the duvet, when Martin can pull it up to his chin and hide his face from Jon’s observant gaze, that he says out loud what he’s been holding in all this time.

“I’m glad we’re together, Jon.”

It’s not everything he hopes to say, not by a long stretch. It’s enough for now.

Jon’s sigh is deep, familiar. It’s more tender than Martin remembers, more contented. 

“So am I, Martin. So am I...”

...

_He’s alone. Grey stretches on for miles, the line where the sea meets the sky meets the shore blurs into one unending mass. Martin stands amidst the unchanging backdrop, a dark smudge on the pale beach._

_He thinks someone is shouting for him, he thinks they might be calling._

_Martin can hardly hear them over the roar of the ocean. He realises that he doesn’t want to._

...

“Martin. _Martin!_ ”

Martin wakes up all at once, his body panicked like someone has pushed him from the ledge of a tall building. He presses shaking hands to his chest, against the pounding of his heart, willing himself to calm down. His t-shirt is soaked through with sweat and it clings unpleasantly to his back. Jon is kneeling on the mattress, leaning over him, complexion ashen.

“You were thrashing around in your sleep,” Jon whispers, voice quivering. He holds his palm against Martin’s forehead for a second, heedless of clammy skin. “Are you okay?!” 

“S-sorry,” Martin whimpers, dragging his arm across his face. The dream had felt so empty, so grey, so full of _nothing_. His mind had been convinced he couldn’t feel anything at all but his body reacted with all the necessary responses of a person experiencing something terrifying. Martin wishes he could throttle Peter Lukas but no, that’s over now. “Bad dream. Really, really bad.”

“What can I do? Do you need anything - some water, maybe?”

“No! No…” Martin says, struggling into a sitting position. “Just stay here.”

Jon rests back on his haunches but stays where he is, gravely watching Martin put himself together again.

“Why did you do it?” Martin asks quietly.

The question catches Jon off guard, as if it is the last thing he expected to hear. “S - sorry?”

“Why did you come for me?”

“I...I rather thought that was obvious?”

Martin shakes his head. Maybe this conversation is too much to ask when they’re propped up in the same bed like this, loose-tongued and sweat drenched from his nightmare. He feels like he’s left his head on the pillow.

“I couldn’t save Sasha - I couldn’t help Tim. I’ve felt so powerless as all these things _happened_ to us and I’d be damned if I was going to let anything happen to _you_ , Martin. The thought of - of somehow going on without you? I just - I can’t do that. I refuse to sit by and play into whatever sick games they’ve planned for us.”

“What if it’s not enough, Jon? What if everything we do - everything we _think_ we know is being orchestrated? What if Elias wanted you to save me?”

“Careful there, Martin. You’re beginning to sound like me.”

“What can we even do?! I keep waiting for something to go wrong or for you to - to disappear or - or - it feels like lately, we’ve never been able to stick around each other. One of us is always being pulled in some direction, it’s like we’re being forced apart! Like we’re...we’re polar magnets...”

Jon reaches across the invisible divide on the bed, takes one of Martin’s hands in both of his own.

“Listen to me. I’ll tell you what you should do,” Jon says calmly, softly, thumbs moving in soothing circles against Martin’s knuckles. “Keep looking at me, Martin. Keep _seeing_ me. I’m not going anywhere. I swear to you.”

Jon - wiry and small as he is, swamped in one of Martin’s favourite shirts, something fragile to most who encounter him - burns with the conviction of his statement. There’s a fire behind those lenses, sparking up in his dark eyes like a bonfire against the night sky. Like the whole of the god forsaken Archives going up in glorious, vengeful smoke.

“I - I care too much about you.” Jon admits, smiling to himself, at some private joke Martin hopes he’ll explain some day soon. “I’m not going to leave you.” 

And Martin believes him; he can’t look away.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the deal: I absolutely powered through The Magnus Archives in 3 months. My listening synced up with a very real life world pandemic. I have entirely too much time on my hands. I haven't had enough time to process season 4 and season 5 is already upon us! I only caught up last week! I'm probably going to listen to the first episode of season 5 tomorrow!
> 
> I never really intended to write fanfic for this, I'm just working through some emotions right now. This is (very) hot off the press so if there are mistakes, please forgive me. I might go back and add more if I feel as if I've jumped the gun on this one.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Stay safe and lots of love.
> 
> p.s. title is from Same Mistake by James Blunt. Yes. Yes, I know but that song TRANSCENDS when it builds up at the end.


End file.
